Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (26 page)

The Cabera Hand thrust forward
like a blade. Cam sidestepped and parried. The king's second hand
lashed, and its fingers—formed of daggers—slammed into Cam's side,
denting his armor and nicking his flesh.

He cried out, kicked, and drove
the king back. He slammed his sword down, scattering nuts and bolts.
The automaton laughed, lunged toward him, and sank its teeth into
Cam's shoulder.

Cam screamed as the bear trap
punched through armor and into his flesh. Linee screamed too; she was
slamming her dagger against the mechanical king, but the blade only
clattered between its moving parts, doing the machine no harm. Cam
grabbed the automaton's metal jaw and twisted, forcing it off his
shoulder. The daggers sliced again, cutting Cam's thigh.

"Linee, attack the king!"
he shouted. He swung his sword, severing the automaton's ropy arm. It
crashed to the floor, then leaped back up, reconnecting with the
torso.

"I am!" she cried
back, driving her dagger into the machine's back.

"The real king!" The
Cabera Hand thrust. Cam diverted the blow, but the brass digit still
sliced along his side, scattering scales from his armor. "The
dead one in the sarcophagus!"

"But . . ." She stood
still, confused. "But he's already dead."

"I know! Stab him! He—"

A scream cut off his words. The
automaton barreled into him, daggers tearing his armor, scaling him
like a fish. Cam fell onto his back, and the automaton leaned down,
teeth digging, tugging off armor, scratching Cam's neck.

"Linee, the sarcophagus!"
he shouted, holding the automaton's head back.

He glimpsed her tugging the
coffin's stone lid. She cried out, tears in her eyes. "I'm
trying! It's stuck."

"Pull harder!"

He drove his sword upward,
slamming the crossguard into the automaton's face. Metal dented. Iron
teeth fell out and scattered, then leaped back into the mouth and bit
again. Blood sprayed Cam's hand, and his sword fell.

"Linee!"

The teeth drove into his
shoulder again. Cam rolled, shoving the machine down. He grabbed its
head and slammed it against the floor, again and again, denting the
metal. It reformed every time. He scuttled back, kicked hard, and
snapped the automaton's ribs, only for them to mold back into place.

The Cabera Hand thrust.

Cam jumped sideways, and the
hand scraped across his waist, cutting through armor and cloth and
skin. He screamed and grabbed the hand. It dug into his palms, but he
clung on, twisting, trying to wrench it free.

"Camlin, it's too heavy, I
can't open it!"

The automaton leaned forward,
grinning and laughing, and licked its chops with an oily metal
tongue. It spoke in a voice like shattering glass. "And so . . .
here you die, Camlin Shepherd. Here I will break you. You tried to
break off my arm . . . so I will start by ripping off yours."

As Cam clung to the brass hand,
the automaton closed its iron jaws around Cam's arm.

He screamed. Those jaws
tightened like a vise. The teeth cut his flesh. The automaton began
to tug back, pulling Cam's arm, and he screamed. He kicked. Tears
budded into his eyes. He felt like a prisoner on the rack.

"Linee!" he shouted,
voice torn in agony.

Through a haze, he saw her
standing by the sarcophagus. Its lid was still closed. She looked at
him, hair golden in the sunbeam, eyes bright green, and she was
beautiful. She was so beautiful she soothed his pain, and he could
barely feel the creature ripping him, tearing him apart. It seemed to
Cam that in the light and mist, she stood back in her gardens of
Kingswall, a queen in a gown, smiling at him, wreathed in flowers and
angelic light. He would die here, he knew, but he would die gazing
upon her, and that was all right. It no longer hurt.

But she tore her gaze away.

She stepped into shadow.

She vanished behind the
sarcophagus, and the pain returned, and the creature was tugging
again, biting, feeding, and his blood spilled. It laughed as it ate
him.

Linee shouted.

The sarcophagus tilted.

Dust rained through light.

The sunray split into ten beams,
scattering across the chamber.

The coffin, shaped like King
Kaeorin, tilted further. The stone king upon its lid stared at Cam,
eyes dark and knowing. Like a bird of prey, it swooped. It fell. It
crashed against the floor and cracked, shattered, broke like a jug,
broke like Cam's body was breaking.

Inside, among the shards of
stone, it lay—the true body of King Kaeorin, wrapped in a shroud,
clad in jewels. Its face and hands were still bare, the skin
blackened, the eye sockets staring.

The automaton shrieked,
clutching Cam in its jaws.

Linee knelt above the wreathed
corpse, looked up at Cam, and drove her dagger down.

The blade crashed through the
dead king's jewels, drove through the shroud, and sank into mummified
flesh.

The automaton screamed.

Cam kicked the machine off and
scampered backward, his blood seeping.

Smoke rose from the corpse.
Linee shouted and released the dagger; it glowed red and welts rose
on her hand. She raced toward Cam and knelt beside him.

The corpse twisted, coiling
inward, churning like black water. Bare feet thrust out from the
shroud, nails black, and the legs bent. The corpse's mouth opened in
a silent scream. The spine snapped. It seemed as if a giant,
invisible fist was crumpling the corpse into a ball.

At its side, the automaton—this
mockery of the body—emitted the scream the corpse could not. Its
ribs snapped. Its legs broke off and shattered. It fell, weeping,
begging. Its skull dented, imploding.

"Thieves . . ." it
whimpered. "Grave robbers . . . I curse you. I curse you! You
killed us . . . you doomed us . . ."

Linee clung to Cam. They knelt
together, watching. The corpse gave a last jerk, then collapsed into
dust. Its jewels spilled across the floor. The automaton gave a last
cry, then broke apart, its pieces spilling like the jewels—springs
and sprockets and gears rolling everywhere, clattering against the
floor.

Linee gasped and pointed.
"Camlin, what's that?"

He stared and shivered. From the
metallic remains rose pale smoke, forming the shape of a man. A king
floated before them, a misty apparition, little more than dust in the
sunbeam. The ghost rose into that beam as if trapped, steam floating
in a tube. It rose higher—sucked up—flowing up the sunbeam until it
passed through the hole in the ceiling . . . and vanished into the
sunlight beyond.

"It was the king's soul,"
Cam said. "It was in the automaton all these years, trapped in a
mechanical body, guarding its old flesh and bones." He blinked
rust and tears out of his eyes. "I can think of nothing sadder.
We freed him, Linee. We freed him from a torturous half-life."

Linee stared at the sunbeam for
a moment longer, then spun toward Cam and gasped. "You're hurt.
You're bleeding all over."

He struggled to his feet,
wobbled, and swallowed. Linee helped him stand, her arm around him.
He stumbled forward, kicked dust and bolts aside, and saw the Cabera
Hand lying at his feet.

"All this way," he
whispered. "Through the night and dusk. Along the river and
through the markets of Kahtef. Past riddles and shadows and blood.
And here it is. The clock hand. Hope." He turned toward Linee
and smiled wanly. "Let's lift it together."

She nodded. They leaned down and
their hands closed around it. The brass was cold and smooth. They
straightened, holding the relic before them.

With his free hand, Cam held his
head. "I . . . I think I'm dizzy. The chamber is spinning."

He swayed and Linee caught him.
"I feel it too!"

The bolts rolled across the
floor. The dust bounced. Cracks raced across the walls, and a chunk
of the ceiling fell, slamming against the floor only feet ahead of
them.

"It's an earthquake!"
Linee said.

Cam shook his head. "It's
the end of long pain."

A chunk of wall fell, revealing
a tunnel. Far ahead, Cam saw the light of day. He began stumbling
forward, skirting cracks and chunks of stone. Linee ran at his side,
holding the Cabera Hand to her chest. Dust rained around them, walls
cracked, and tiles thrust up from the floor like teeth. The rumbling
of stones rose as loudly as thunder.

They raced down the tunnel,
rocks pelting them, and emerged into a hall lined with columns. A
gateway rose ahead, and through it Cam saw the desert, the sunlight
nearly blinding him. Columns cracked. One shattered and fell.

They ran toward the gateway
between raining stones.

When Cam reached the gateway and
began to pass through, Linee clutched his arm, holding him fast.

"Camlin, look!"

He spun around. They stood
within the gateway, staring back into the hall.

"It's her," Linee
whispered, holding him, her eyes damp. "It's Queen Ferisi. The
queen he built this ziggurat for."

Cam stared, scarcely believing
his eyes. The ancient queen stood between two columns, clad in white,
golden jewels around her arms and neck. Her face was a silver mask.
Her left hand rose, a gesture of peace . . . of farewell.

"Goodbye, Queen Ferisi,"
Linee whispered, raising her hand too. "Rest now. You're free."

More rocks fell from the
ceiling. The columns around Ferisi cracked. Dust rained.

Cam and Linee turned and fled
from the mausoleum. They raced down the outer stairs, ran across the
sand, and finally spun back toward the ziggurat. Dust burst out from
its gateway. Its columns cracked and fell. The entrance collapsed,
and debris fell down the building's facades with a rain of dust and
pebbles. The upper tower, the square atop the triangle, collapsed
into itself . . . and lay still.

When the dust settled, the
ziggurat stood before them, self-mummified, its secrets forever
entombed, its doorways gone—a dead relic for the sands of time.

Cam fell into the sand and
winced. Finally he allowed himself to feel pain.

Linee rummaged through her pack,
pulling out their medical supplies—spirits, ointments, and bandages.
"I'm going to bandage you up good. When I'm done, you're going
to look like a mummified king yourself."

He winced. "Don't remind me
of him. Please."

She opened her mouth to object,
then closed it. She nodded. She worked silently, tending to his
wounds. Beside them in the sand, the Cabera Hand pointed skyward,
gleaming in the sun.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
FALLING

The horde of howling Nayans raced
forward, brandishing spears and shields, their tigers leaping.
Hundreds of the warriors ran among the trees, trampling grass and
ferns. Tiger pelts hung across their shoulders, and fang necklaces
jangled upon their chests. Their red braids swung, clanking with
beads, and bloodlust filled their eyes.

Standing upon a fallen log,
facing the charging mob, Torin and Bailey drew sword and arrow.

"Hello again, my friends!"
cried Ishel. The wild woman led the charge, riding upon her tiger,
the great beast Durga. She laughed, her mane of fiery hair billowing.
"Are you ready to taste my blades again?"

Bailey closed one eye, aimed,
and fired an arrow. It slammed into Ishel but snapped against her
breastplate. The Nayans kept charging, only heartbeats away.

Bailey spat and shouted,
"Couldn't face us alone so you brought an army?" She drew
her longsword, leaped off the mossy log, and ran toward the horde. "I
cut your arm last time, Ishel. Now I cut your neck."

Torin winced, memories of war
returning to him—from the first skirmish in Fairwool-by-Night to the
clash of empires in Yintao. His knees shook and sweat soaked him, but
he gritted his teeth, jumped off the log, and ran with Bailey.

Around them, the Children of
Nine roared and ran too, firing arrows and tossing javelins.

"Nine!" they cried.
"Nine, Nine!"

With steel, stone, and screams,
the battle crashed around Torin.

Tigers pounced and lashed claws,
and Torin swung his katana, knocking them back. Nayan warriors
bellowed, spraying saliva, their beards clattering with bones, and
their spears lashed his way. He parried madly. Bailey fought at his
side, her braids swinging with her sword. All around them, hundreds
clashed together, killing and dying.

Ishel and her warriors were
Northern Nayans, dwellers of the Sern's riverbank. They were tall and
broad, and they knew the secrets of metalworking and writing. The
Children of Nine were the southern dwellers of the deep rainforest, a
smaller, humbler folk, and they knew only of stone and wood. And yet
this southern tribe, guardians of the number, fought with just as
much ferocity. Their stone-tipped arrows tore into the enemy. Their
spears lashed. Their slings slammed stones into the invaders' heads.
They spilled blood and they chanted for the Nine.

"Torin, watch out!"
Bailey said, sounding more annoyed then afraid. She tugged him down
an instant before a javelin flew over his head. With a glare, she
yanked him up. "Now stop gawping and fight with me."

They stood back to back,
swinging their swords like in that first battle against the Sailith
monks in Fairwool-by-Night. But their defiance was short-lived. With
a roar, a tiger leaped onto them, knocking them down. Claws scratched
Torin's armor, denting scales. The beast's jaws wrapped around
Bailey's arm, and she screamed. The rider upon the tiger laughed,
hair blowing like a flame.

"Ishel." Torin grunted
and pushed himself to his feet. Her spear drove toward him and he
parried.

Bailey managed to stand beside
him. Durga still gripped her arm, the tiger's teeth clattering
against the vambrace. She thrust her longsword against Ishel, but the
woman swung down her scimitar. The blades clanged.